


Wider JOHNNY Smiling, Lets Make You A Million

by Pink_and_Velvet



Category: Duran Duran
Genre: Backstage antics, Begging, Blowjobs, Boys on film, Games, Insults, Leather, Light Dom/sub, M/M, Muse - Freeform, Orders, Orgasm Delay, PVC, Sex, Slaves, Teasing, Vogue, handjobs, photoshoot, posing, pouts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-07
Updated: 2019-11-07
Packaged: 2021-01-25 01:34:05
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,255
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21348082
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Pink_and_Velvet/pseuds/Pink_and_Velvet
Summary: John was the puppet, the product that hismastercontrolled, movements calculated for the optimum vantage point: for pain and for pleasure.It isn’t long until he’s naked and bested, lights flashing and film rolling, on his knees.
Relationships: Nick Rhodes/John Taylor (Duran Duran)
Comments: 16
Kudos: 23





	Wider JOHNNY Smiling, Lets Make You A Million

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by John’s irresistible leather on leather, military inspired look from the debut album in 1981. You know _exactly_ the look I’m going for.__

Strutting into the all unlit room, John’s eyes roamed the usual: camera, super 8, studio lighting so on and so fourth. He hadn’t been given much detailing as to the concept of the shoot and, if he was truly honest with himself, he probably wouldn’t even understand it. All that he knew was, he was more than ready to rock on with it.

That and, it would drive the fans _wild_ to find out this was a purely Duran effort.

John stood centre, knowing the harsh black of his leather jacket and gleaming gold tassels would contrast well against his backdrop. Not that he could see it.

He lit his cigarette, the brief bout of light did nothing to relieve his anticipation: his backdrop; the muse.

He licked his ruby stained lips, sighing at the familiar hint of raspberry on his tongue and waited.

And waited.

This wasn’t right. His photographer was the at most professional in any and all circumstances. It didn’t matter whether he was shooting the John _Fucking Bass God_ Taylor or some freaking fruit for some strange display. He was always punctual; hair and makeup primed and perfected to a tee each and every time.

Squinting, John felt for the stool that was likely to be there. He cursed as he almost tripped onto it as, obviously, that was the exact moment for the lights to go up: John’s insanely long legs shaky and halfway to colliding with the floor. 

“Always one to make an entrance.” A subtle, yet booming voice called from the other end of the studio.

John took a drag and basked in his sights. The backdrop was hand painted: swirls of red, black and gold gleamed in random patterns, running carefree up and down the canvas. The floor matched the pattern, a dizzying disarray of shapes and designs that made his head spin and his heart pound.

“On the pedestal, eyes wide, mouth parted.”

John grinned at the instruction. He surveyed his photographer; his director, who in turn captured every delicious angle of his lean body. 

John hunched, flaming red hair falling into his eyes when a “that’s it, hold it.. _hold_ it.. perfect. You really are beautiful when you _heel_ aren’t you, Johnny?”

John pretended that he didn’t shiver.

He followed the instructions, they were fired at him in rapid succession but he wasn’t an amateur. John had full confidence that his photographer, his puppet master, knew exactly how to capture the best of him.

Fifty dizzying camera shots later, up close, wide angled, high and low, there was a lull. John turned on his heel, sweeping the hair from his face and yanking out his bandana. 

“Christ.”

“Tie it again.” John, cigarette hanging from his lips, obeyed.

Within moments, the air changed. The heat was simmering, creative intention thrumming through his drug aching veins. The camera was a drug and boy, was the photographer about to claim John as him own.

“Let’s try something different.” The voice crooned, deep and insistent. “Take your jacket off.”

John couldn’t help but smirk. They both knew there was nothing underneath.

He chances being cheeky, already knowing he was more than exited to put in the singular effort. “You take it off.”

“Do you need _help_?”

“Never, Sir. Unless _you_ want to help me.”

The photographer just grinned. That was enough of an answer. He wanted a show, it was John’s stage.

With a playful tease, he slowly, languidly caressed his top button. The gold shining even brighter after having been popped open and ripped from its seams.

“Perfect.. beautiful.” The voice growing in intensity, “pose.” 

John pouted. 

John parted his lips.

He ran a hand through his hair.

His tongue caressed his bottom lip.

His cigarette smoke framed his face.

“Gorgeous. You’re doing so _good_ for me, Johnny. Always one to _please_ me.”

John bit his bottom lip, eyes glancing down for a brief moment of vulnerability. It was captured, savoured, as the flash again lit up his pale skin. 

“All the way off.”

The jacket was discarded.

John turned. 

Hands in his hair. 

Hands at his side.

A teasing hand on his hip.

He was stunning with little to no effort and his pin ups would caress thousands of walls; for thousands of girls and boys to lust for, crave, endure. John raised an eyebrow, disappearing into his messy red locks and again, the flash penetrated his soul. He took another drag, with a big exhale.

“Open the top button.” 

John didn’t even hesitate. Keeping his cigarette locked between his perfectly plush lips, his deft hands caught a hold of the brass belt, sliding it through each and every loop; taking in the darkened, lustful gaze that had overcome those prying hazel eyes. 

John danced with it, his belt, hips swaying in hypnotic circles as finally he yanked it free. It was tossed like he had touched something hot, landing metres away from him. Then the camera was revived again, a smirk painting John’s sultry guise and a hand dangerously near his crotch.

It didn’t go unnoticed to the photographer when John’s palm immediately brushed over his straining self. The ministration was over in a tenth of a second but, he was no amateur. It was caught on camera, awaiting eagerly to be developed.

John put out his cigarette.

“Trousers off, boy. Be quick about it.”

John sighed, not ready to give in just yet. His huge hand fanned about his waist and his cut hip bones peeked out the tops of his leathers. The fabric was thick, tight, chains and PVC having perfectly sculpted his lanky frame. He let slip a moan as the top button popped open.

The photographer’s eyes impossibly darkened, honing in on his target. John winked, ruby lips parted, and rested those teasing digits on his hips whilst he was photographed on all angles.

“Move.”

John began to move. His hips were wild, hypnotic, swaying tantalisingly slow. Back and forth, side to side, his rocks graduated to thrusts, jerking forward with a lewd moan.

“Putting on a show for me are we, Johnny?” John felt sparks run up each knuckle of his spine. “Take them off.” 

John shimmied out of his leathers, the PVC being stripped from him with an echo. The crunch of the fabric, the desire in John’s eyes: the film was replaced in the blink of an eye.

“Now what would _you_” He paused, teasing as his ruby lips glinted in the light. “like _me_ to do, _master_?” 

“Flattery will only get you so far, my dear _Nigel_.”

A moan was ripped from John’s throat. He couldn’t deny, his knees would soften and his head would swim every time he was reminded, _rewarded_, his given name. No ego, no clash of personalities: Nigel.

At that the photographer stepped forward, on his tip toes and in a sudden and gentle movement; the stray bangs were brushed from John’s face to reveal the kohl- lined eyes below. 

“Simply _irresistible_. Hold it… _hold_ it.” He repeated, John falling in line to the rhythm of the booming voice.

“You _know_ what comes next.” The voice pierced the thick air, parting the cigarette smoke that whisked about John’s head.

John nodded, already falling to his knees. 

He glanced upwards, a sudden wave of anticipation: radiating in sexuality and sensuality rushed up to smack him in the face. To rain down on him. To awaken his already aching body without even being gifted with the sense of touch.

“On the floor, John.”

The camera was mere inches from his face. From his lips, which he again licked in a teasing manner. He chuckled before a hand caught hold of his perfectly cut cheek, not at all nicely. 

“Hands and knees. Open it with your teeth.”

John readily obeyed. He crawled over, inches away from his master who now eclipsed him in height. Even kneeling, John still had to hunch to reach his destination. His target: beckoning him; demanding his attention.

He was a skilled man, John, taking a moment to nuzzle up against the strains of the purple fabric in front of him. He brushed up and down, side to side before relishing his moment: planting a swift kiss across the rise of the satin. He sucked at it, the damp patch unmistakable.

He felt the man above him shudder, the photographer’s knees buckled for a split second. John smirked to himself.

Ever a tease, he upped his game. John’s mouth dropped open, his adorable overbite mere inches from what he so wanted, craved, desired and could so readily claim as his own. 

“Open it. Open the zip, boy.”

“Yes, _master_.” John looked up at his dazzling figure, decked out in the finest of silks, his crystal collar, from under his enhanced lashes. 

John radiated heat, he felt as though it would burn him up.

He lapped his tongue over the fabric and, within only two tries, his teeth gnawed at the zip. He pulled it, with surprising grace, his huge hands rising to open the buttons and remove all restraints.

John, in a sudden moment of sweetness, placed a quick kiss atop of the black briefs.

“Take your underwear off.”

At that John’s eyes widened then narrowed in both challenge and desire. 

John rose to his full height, jerking his pelvis forward. His huge hands wrapped around himself and tugged them down, gruelling inch by inch, budding farewell to the last regulation. 

All guards were down and John stood bare, his excitement clearly showing. He looked down at himself and smirked, he had always been proud of all those extra inches.

“_Suck it._ Be a good boy and suck it.”

John was on his knees with his lips engulfing the engorged shaft faster than he could say _Barbarella. _

His tongue swirled, maddeningly, from base to tip. John sucked harder, knowing that the photographer could see his own member brushing up against John’s hollowed in cheek. John could feel a trembling, a rush that was both eager yet wanting to hold out: order him about more.

It didn’t surprise John when the voice, albeit slightly choked off, demanded: “_Touch_ yourself.”

John grinned before returning his lips to the erection bobbing before him. He bought a deft hand to his own leaking member and began to tug with wild strokes, no finesse.

“Slowly. Or you’ll be keeping your hands behind your back, _slave_.”

John choked as the word rang in his head. The insult, the ultimate description of his power imbalance. A string of saliva had formed between his lips and the weeping head as he took a shaky breath.

John was close, his fingers tracing patterns on himself, running up and down the throbbing veins. He felt his balls tighten as he yanked at them, whining around the still erect member pulsing between his lips.

John was growing much closer to his moments of eyes rolling back, head lolling and pretty mouth spewing pure filth than what he wanted to admit. He was determined to please but his limits were closing in on him. He raised his left hand and clasped at the heavy balls before him, sucking harder and harder when finally, _finally_ the moans from his master told him to pull away and revel in the sights.

John swiftly replaced his mouth with his hands, jacking at both himself and his master furiously. His lips parted and his eyes shut as a delectable groan penetrated the air: juices splashing his face, messing up, adding too, his makeup.

He let out a long string of violent curses as he followed his master down. His hand was covered in thick, white spurts: the liquid running hot down his forearm. 

Moans interweaved, pants intermingled.

John barely had time to react with the body before him collapsed. The purple suit blanketing his own naked and sticky frame, with a huff on both ends.

“_Fuck_, John.. that.. was.” He painted into John’s elongated neck. “Miraculous.”

“Christ, Nick.. how do you do..” He fought for air, “ d-do _that_ to me?” John pried open his eyes, basking in the smug look of the keyboardist.

“It’s my job, fairy.”

“Wanker.” John barked back.

Their laughter synced up, still shaky, as together their pulses beat themselves back to normal. Reluctantly Nick withdrew his weight and helped a still quaking John to his feet.

“I can’t wait to see those photos.” John crooned, planting a kiss on Nick’s flushed cheek.

“Who said _you’ll_ be seeing them? They are for my own, personal, _private_ collection.” Nick’s voice dropped low and neither man could help but stifle a chuckle.

John coughed out something resembling a _sick mother—_

Nick slapped him at the back of the head before the insult could hit home. He couldn’t help but smile as he did so.

“Slides, Nicholas, Thursday night?”

A blonde eyebrow was raised. John could see the amusement on Nick’s face and had no shame in admitting to himself that yes, he did know precisely how long it took for Nick to develop his super secret, private photo collection.

“_Always_, Nigel.”

Nick’s steady hands helped John as he fumbled his way back into the leather with the slick of his sweat soaked, and other bodily fluids, skin resisting the PVC. His momentary _calculated_ frustration caused him to pout and beckon Nick for further assistance.

Nick just grinned, sly and lustful, his delicate hands doing up John’s jacket’s brass buttons inch by inch. Then, a forceful arm shot forward to claim John’s ruby lips in a bruising, passionate kiss.


End file.
